Zombie Joyride
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Zombies on their bumper, Dean unconscious in the front seat: it's not one of Sam's better days.


**Zombie Joyride**  
K Hanna Korossy

He was not going to let Dean die.

There was, yeah, some cause for concern about his own well-being, but that seemed to be the only thought spinning through Sam's head. That, and, _they're getting close_. He glanced into the rear view mirror, and pressed the Impala's gas pedal all the way to the floor.

Simple job, right? A little nest of zombies nestled in the northern Louisiana wilds, attacking anyone who was unlucky enough to come their way. Some rock salt-loaded shotguns—this time as a restorative instead of a weapon—and, no sweat, job was done.

"Little" was a relative term.

Sam thought he heard a moan and glanced over to his right. But Dean was as still as when Sam had scooped him up and shoved him into the car. Blood caked the side of his face that was visible, otherwise there was no sign of injury besides the unnatural stillness and his boneless slump against the door. Sam wanted desperately to stop and check him over, take care of the injuries, take him to the hospital if necessary. But there had been no time, was no time. Not while those headlights in the mirror were gaining on them.

Yes, apparently, zombies could drive.

"It'll be all right, Dean," Sam said, because saying it out loud made it seem a little less ridiculous a possibility.

Dean didn't answer.

Okay. Fleeing had been a good start, but it wasn't a long-term plan. Not with the zombies in pursuit. Time to start thinking tactically.

Sam chewed on the inside of his mouth for a moment, then deliberately started to slow.

The lights in the mirror grew brighter, then blinding. Trust zombies not to worry whether they were using their brights or not. It wasn't like they were very smart: "kill" pretty much summed up their purpose in life. Sam was surprised they had figured out brakes and gas, but then, trust him and Dean to find the one patch of smart zombies in the country.

"Don't worry," he said softly, "I know what I'm doing."

Dean definitely had to be unconscious not to react to that one, although Sam could imagine the biting retort. _You do know zombies are FLESH-EATING FRICKIN' EVIL, right? _Complete with deadpan emphasis. As if the way they'd picked Dean up and slammed him into a massive tree hadn't given Sam a clue.

The car rolled to a gentle stop at the side of the road and idled there. Sam pried his fingers from the steering wheel and took advantage of the few seconds to check Dean's pulse. Strong but fast. Probably not bleeding inside then, but the head wound worried him. Sam yanked his jacket off and rolled it into a ball, easing it between Dean and the door. "Any time you want to wake up and critique my plan here, feel free."

Again, another wasted opportunity. Dean would be kicking himself when he came to. If.

Sam's jaw shifted. "Just rest, Dean—you're safe. I'll take care of everything." Because he had so much experience with that. Usually, it was Dean taking care of him, even when his big brother was worse for wear himself. Who'd chased a wendigo through its own lair just minutes after regaining consciousness, or carried Sam home and cleaned him up when there were blood trails down his own face?

The pursuing car pulled ahead of him and stopped. Doors opened and zombies poured out, like an emptying clown car.

Sam shifted, foot poised over the gas.

"Sorry, Dean," he murmured, and stomped on it.

The grill caught two of them about knee-height, snapping them over the hood of the Impala. One bounced off to the left, the other kept tumbling, spiderwebbing the windshield over the passenger side and bumping along the hood before he rolled off the back. Two more zombies dove out of the way, and Sam clipped a fifth, running it over as he screeched out onto the road and took off again.

Man, he hoped those undead bodies hadn't left any major dents on the car, or Sam would soon be joining their ranks.

He started to breathe again. The car was no speed demon, but it felt powerful and fast as it put distance between them and the threat. Sam sagged a little, reached for his brother once more. "Dean?"

There wasn't much he could do one-handed, but he could finally reach back for a blanket at least and snap it out over Dean. He tucked it in carefully, pausing and backtracking as he thought he felt something. Definite break in the arm. Sam's fingers explored the swelling all the way down to Dean's wrist, taking in the puffy hand. Well, that could explain the unconsciousness, anyway. The body didn't tend to like extreme shocks or pain.

Sam very gently settled the broken limb in Dean's lap and finished swaddling him. His brother could fuss later. "We'll get you fixed up soon," Sam promised quietly.

Headlights reappeared in the mirror.

Sam stared at them, slack-jawed, using language that was usually more Dean's style, when what was happening sank in. This wasn't over yet. They couldn't stop, he couldn't set his brother's broken arm or find out for sure why Dean wasn't moving or if he was even dying, because some stupid zombies didn't know when to quit.

He was really, really tired of this.

Sam snapped the Impala's lights off and rolled off the road, onto the grassy but more or less level terrain. Dean would be digging weeds out of the axels for weeks, but Sam could have waxed eloquent about how much he didn't care right now. Unlike Dean, his priorities were always Dean's life first, car second. Sam wasn't even sure sometimes if _he_ rated above the car for his brother, except he knew about the time Dean had tried to hock the Impala to try to get information on a missing Sam. Not that he'd ever let on he knew; he'd take that secret to the grave.

He just hadn't planned on that being tonight.

The headlights were harder to see now that they weren't directly behind, but they kept zooming down the road toward him…and then turned off to follow the Impala.

Terrific. Not just driving zombies but really good trackers, too. What were they, part bloodhound? Banshee? Night-vision special ops?

"Fine," Sam said aloud, because discussing strategy with Dean always felt right, even if the conversation was completely one-sided. "We're ending this now." Sam reached behind the seat, hauled out their weapons bag even while he fought to keep the car going straight over uneven terrain. "Did you pack the—" He found the bottle. "Never mind."

Dean didn't.

Sam reloaded the shotgun with salt cartridges, found the flare gun, and rolled down the window. His little armory piled beside him, Sam glanced once more at his silent brother. "Hold on, Dean." He put out an arm, anyway, like his dad did when they were little, pressing Dean against the seat even as Sam whipped the car around in an impressive 180. Well, maybe more like a 160, but he wasn't being picky.

His brother moaned, stirring a little.

Sam's mouth pulled up into a wan smile. "You never did like being left out of the action," he said, incredibly lamely. But discomfort didn't lead to awareness, and Dean fell silent again. Sam checked his pulse again, palm resting against a bloody cheek for a moment before it was back to business.

Zombie business. And Dean wondered why Sam pined for a normal life.

The other car careened to a stop facing him. The occupants were a little warier after last time. With good cause: as soon as they stopped, Sam started, not even letting them climb out this time.

The shotgun was in his hand as he passed the driver's side of the car, and he fired once, pretty sure he hit the driver in the chest. That would throw some confusion into things, anyway. No one seemed to notice or care about the bottle he next threw against the rear panel of the car as he passed it, glass shattering and dousing the vehicle. Just as the Impala edged past, Sam leaned out the window and aimed back at the gasoline-soaked ground and car with the flare gun. He waited as long as he dared before pulling the trigger.

The fireball consumed the car and rocked the Impala. Dean moaned again.

Sam stopped, climbed briefly out to stare at the scene he was leaving behind. But the movement inside the flame-filled car soon stopped, and nothing escaped. Sam took a deep, grunting breath and leaned down for a moment, hands on his knees, to ride out the cresting adrenalin rush. Close, very close, too close. And not done yet. He scrambled back in the car.

To be greeted by one half-open and very confused eye. "Sammy?" Dean's voice was weak, chalky.

Sam slid in beside him, hands gentle at shoulder and hip and chin, places he hoped wouldn't hurt. "Be careful—you hit pretty hard, Dean," he admonished, also gently. "You arm's broken."

Dean was grimacing, trying to straighten and then giving it up. "No kidding," he grumbled, then hissed out a breath. "What's going on?"

Sam glanced back at the merrily burning fire. He winced. "Zombie roast."

Dean gave him an odd look.

Sam smiled at him, relief making him unabashedly sappy. "Hospital?"

Dean paused. "You remember how to set a bone?"

"Unfortunately, yeah."

"Motel."

That simple. Life with Dean was, when Sam let it be. If you called cleaning up your bloody and broken brother in a motel room "simple." Sam preferred to dwell on the trust that implied, rather than the pain. He nodded, squeezing lightly to show his relief Dean was awake, getting a twist of the mouth in reply, then he shut the door behind him and started the car.

It took about five seconds longer than he expected it to; Dean was still clearly a little out of it. But there was nothing dazed about the horror in his voice as he stared at the cracked windshield. "Sam, what did you do to my car?"

Sam shook his head, grinned, and drove.

**The End**


End file.
